The Post Office Box, #shorttales #flashfiction

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The Post Office Box, (c) 2016 by Pamela Schloesser Canepa

Tussling with the dog. That was Jasmine’s story, this time. The scar would dissipate in a week, she knew. It did hurt. This was so unfair, yet, all too familiar.
Driving to work, Jasmine noticed she’d inadvertently put on one navy blue shoe and one black. An understandable mistake; they were almost identical, and those colors were close. I wonder if anyone will notice? She realized the light had turned. I sure don’t need a ticket.


To her left was the post office. Darn, I forgot that electric bill. Rick will lose it. Do I go back? She worried it might make her late, yet she didn’t need one more fight about the mail.


Her thoughts drifted to the invitation that had arrived the week before, for her ten year high school reunion. Of course, with a four month old baby and a full-time job, she hadn’t seriously considered. Still, she had thought of going.


“You just want to see all your old boyfriends! You wench!” Rick had screamed, holding the baby in his arms.


“No, Rick, don’t worry, I don’t need to go.” That’s how it always went. Keeping the peace. When she never received any in return.


Abruptly, she pulled into the post office. “I need a post office box,” she announced to the clerk. JUST for me.


With receipt of the key, she found the assigned box. It was cool inside. She imagined fitting inside of it, this doorway to distant places.

**A flash fiction story in 250 words or less, originally published here on WordPress and on Kurt Brindley’s writing website in 2016.  Want to see what happens? This story is posted with two alternate endings at https://www.wattpad.com/story/83522549-the-post-office-box-realisticfiction ; one is realistic fiction, and the other is paranormal fantasy.  Or, you may check the original WordPress posts where I first published the alternate endings. Realistic fiction ending: The Post Office, RF ending and Paranormal/fantasy ending: The Post Office, PF

 

Dance of Life. #poetry

2006. Ballroom dance practice.

Blackshoe2IMG_0009 2009, before I retired these shoes.

 

Dance of Life by Pamela Schloesser Canepa, (c) 2019

Please don’t tell me how to dance
and don’t critique my dance
This dance is life and is not a dance with death,
it is a dance with what I’ve been given.
Don’t check the boxes while I dance
My dance is what I’m feeling inside
My dance is where I am in life…
It changes all the time.
To think I used to wear those shoes,
I danced away depression and blues.
Did I worry about a judge?
I also forgot to bear a grudge.
Now here I am, sneakers and yoga pants
and I still at times break into dance.
Sometimes the flow of words is my dance,
Sometimes comforting a child is my dance.
Don’t stare and check your boxes,
the dance is the story, a story, partly fiction
the story is me, the dance is survival
One can only live through self-expression.
I am not within the box,
and no one else draws my lines
so join me if you dare, or laugh along.

Yes, laugh, I said. It means that we’re alive.

#Weekend Coffee Share. A Poem for Every Emotion.

Cappuccino, Coffee, Cafe, Empty  An empty cup means we have filled our hearts with fellowship and companionship, no matter how briefly.

Welcome to the Weekend Coffee Share, hosted by Allison at eclecticali.wordpress.com.  I am full of emotions today.  Full of love for my job where I can share my love for reading and writing with some cute, young, sometimes challenging, and at times, fun students.  Full of disappointment over my hurting arm and hand and the brief stop my writing has done for the time being, therefore this is a short post.  I’m also full of confusion and despair over the turn our country is taking for women.  Yet, I am full of hope that we have some control over the way things will turn.  The wheel keeps on turning.  I am simply going to draw a little picture here:

Freedom, (c) 2018

We are not considered the ones in charge

Yet, we are full of power

We are the thorny plant and not the flower.

We are the wild brush of the jungle.

No longer tame,

no need to be restrained.

When I hold my tongue to spare your feelings,

Or sit, thinking I can’t reach the ceiling

I have believed all that they said

Politics have ruled my heart and head.

When I am too diplomatic, my thoughts sour

Stuck in this headspace, a day or an hour,

so here, I’m going to spill it on the table

Let it form it’s lovely colors, if it’s able.

If you’ve listened, and really heard

You are my friend by deed, and not just word.

 

Thank you for hearing me out.  I think I needed this.  I hope you all have a lovely week.  Visit Alli’s blog to share your own post or to visit others! https://eclecticali.wordpress.com/category/series-of-sorts/if-we-were-having-coffee/

 

Roam. Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers.

This week’s photo credit goes to Jodi McKinney.

At dawn, she felt freer than ever.  The dew would dampen her hair, and her spirit could soar.  It had been this way since her youth.

This place was always her home, the one she hoped to return to again and again.  Now, she had done her time and run her race.  Given the world all that she could.

Her babies had grown and didn’t need her anymore.  Though she couldn’t run through the fields as she used to, she’d sit and imagine the blades of grass crunching beneath her as she ran.

Here she would retire, an old gray mare, but here, she felt the most beautiful of all, because here, her spirit could soar.

**Find out more about this weekly photo prompt challenge at Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers

 

Dreamin’ #poetry #dreams

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Image courtesy of Pixabay.

Dreamin’ (c) 2017 by Pamela Schloesser Canepa

 

I dream of a California

that is untouched by flame,

of wide open spaces to which

no one lays claim.

I dream of a body

that’s not slowed down with pain

Of waterlogged islands

that can be home again.

I wish for outdoor concerts

not ruined by gunshots

And long for a leader

whose conscience can’t be bought.

I dream of a nation

embracing its weakest.

Acceptance and love,

to those of the outer reaches.

 

I dream with wanderlust

for I just want to escape

The feel, and the touch

of this year’s landscape.

I dream of a future

that is better than today,

that is spiritually evolved

from the world of yesterday.

I dream, but is that all?

For it has to start somewhere.

I dream, I share my dream,

and I wonder, just who cares?

 

*The poet, Pamela, was born in California.  Her own experience with the year 2017 has been a little rough.  Watching the news doesn’t help.  You may make conclusions about her political leanings.  That is your right.  We are all entitled to our opinion, but I think we’d all agree, the world, our nation, our people, have suffered a rough year.  Still, we can always hope for a better tomorrow and dream of a better world. 

 

 

 

 

Alone, (a short story). #writephoto

Photo provided by Sue Vincent at scvincent.com

No one knows where I am.  They’re probably saying I’m crazy.  That’s okay; I don’t expect most of them to understand.

I’m out here, all alone.  Miles away, on another continent.  The view is breathtakingly beautiful.  The sounds are inherently calming.  I don’t wake to an alarm; the slight hint of dawn and the chirping of birds is what wakes me every morning.

Chastity might understand.  Maybe one day I’ll go back for her.  Or maybe I won’t, if it could mean losing everything I have right now.

What I have now is freedom.  Like the gulls cawing above, I have freedom from my uncouth boss, freedom from bills, the mortgage, that ex-wife and her constant prying for alimony.  I have freedom from the stress.  The only thing I have to stress about now is what I’ll eat.  So far, I’ve been able to find a way, every time.  This is a life of survival, and I’m doing it.  I never thought I could give up that false security back home.  Now, I know it’s totally possible.

The beach breeze brings a pleasant, salty smell to the air.  Some days, I remind myself that the lack of a shower means a lack of interest–on my house, my credit cards, my car.  I let them repossess it, and the house went into foreclosure.  Some will say I was only trying to jilt my ex-wife, but they don’t see the larger monster that I needed to escape.

Money is what ruled me, and what was bound to kill me.  I was working non-stop, fueling myself with caffeine, Redbull and barbecue.  Now, I take my chances on a steep mountain or waking up in a hostel, not knowing if I’ll gather money to buy my next meal, but I am getting better day by day.  Instead of getting  heart disease, I will get leaner.

In a day or two, I’ll go to visit the monks on the next mountain.  I think they’ll agree with my decisions.  Learning to do without is really freeing.

 

 

*Every week, Sue Vincent posts a photo prompt and a challenge to fellow bloggers.  Directions are:  Use the image (below) as inspiration to create a post on your own blog… poetry, prose, humour… light or dark, whatever you choose, by noon (GMT)  Wednesday 16th August and link back to this post with a pingback.

I invite you to visit the post on Sue Vincent’s blog at https://scvincent.com/2017/08/10/thursday-photo-prompt-alone-writephoto/

Friday Fictioneers, #flashfiction. Resist.

rochellewisoff.com.janet-webb-french-still-life

Photo credit, (c) Janet Webb.

Overwrought with emotions, Mary took out pen and paper.  Tomorrow the family of the man she was arranged to marry, as was the custom in those days, would visit.

He was a man of means, something she should desire.  He was not the man of her dreams, who’d gallop in, rescuing her from this lecher who’d touched her backside like he owned her.

By candlelight, she wrote a goodbye letter, surrounded by the trappings of femininity.  They’d stay behind.

She stuffed her brother’s clothes into a satchel, grabbing a blade.  Her hair dropped in one swift cut.  Practice pays off.~

 

*Exactly 100 words.

*Directions: Write a story in 100 words or less in response to the photo prompt.  Give the photographer credit.  Enter your link to the inlinkz button.  Respond to others.

*Friday fictioneers is a blog/writer’s challenge hosted weekly by Rochelle at https://rochellewisoff.com/

FFfAW: A New Alliance, Flash Fiction

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Photo credit:  Louise at Storyteller’s Abode

She walked over and Henry bristled.  “I’m here to be alone,” he said, curtly.

“Oh, I’ll just have a seat.  You won’t bite.  I can tell. Your body language says it all.”  She set down her huge bag and sat, carefully holding her dress down.  “You’re definitely overdressed.”

“So are you,” Henry said, realizing he’d been sized up.  He moved his equally stuffed bag to the other side.

“How long since you cut yourself loose of your chains?” She asked.

“A year,” Henry replied, smiling.  He thought he’d figured her out.  “How about you?  A pretty young woman, walking the beach, overstuffed bag.  Do you sleep here?”

“Do I look crumpled and wrinkly? Of course not.  This is how I pass the days.  Two years.”

“Sorry, no offense.”

“Okay.  Are you free for lunch?”  She replied.

“Why not?”

Two years and twenty beaches later, Henry was still wandering the shores with Kaitlynn.

 

**This Flash Fiction challenge is hosted by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/05/22/fffaw-challenge-week-of-may-23-2017/

How it works:  A prompt photo will be provided each Tuesday to be used as a base to your story. Please include photo prompt with your story.   Linking for this challenge begins on Tuesday and runs to the following Monday evening.   Please credit photo to photographer.  The story word limit is 100 – 150 words (+ – 25 words). Please try and stay within this limit.

Please check out other stories inspired by this prompt.  I hope you like what I cooked up.  No two are ever alike!

A Date to Remember, Ch. 2. A Tale of Love in 2063. #amwriting #shortstories

wildflowers-1559029_1280 2-14-2063

A Date to Remember, Ch. 1   Find the first installment, a Flash Fiction piece, here on my Niume profile. (If you haven’t discovered it yet on WordPress).  http://niume.com/post/251559

A Date to Remember, Ch. 2 © 2017.  By Pamela Schloesser Canepa. All rights reserved.

He’s going to love his Valentine’s gift, I thought, almost running back home under gray skies that could not cloud my mood. I had just been to see Roy, who was helping me with this effort.

Tom and I had discussed this, the possibility of a child. We saw Roy and Mavis with their child, Randy, who could not hear but communicated quite well with his hands at four. It was just a pity there was no official education for a child like him.  Since the “system” had decided not to fund or make available any health insurance for those who procreate without a permit, the government believed it could rightly do away with any such education. Those operating outside of the laws of society would do so without any help from society or the government.

Roy and Mavis were actually doing quite well. Mavis was researching and hoarding all the books and video uploads she could find to educate her child on her own. Health insurance? Roy was already a holistic healer (a profession that implied living on the fringes), and his self-studies made him an awfully good unofficial nurse/ sometimes doctor for children who were born to families on the fringes. His own child included. In fact, if I ever gave birth, he’d have to be the one to deliver it. Not to mention, no doctor would help me now…..

Read the rest here at Niume:  Source: A Date to Remember, Ch. 2. A Tale of Love in 2063.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay (Creative Commons)

Want to know how you can use Niume to promote your writing and earn revenue?  Please see my post at https://pamelascanepa.wordpress.com/2017/02/10/use-niume-to-promote-your-writing/

Thank you for reading!

#flashfiction “This Time,” #shortstory #fffawchallenge

Photo courtesy of Joy Pixley.flashfictionjoyphoto-20161219154654337

The trail was long and her legs were weary.  Did I do the right thing?  She wondered.  Sure, I had to stand up for myself, end the madness.

A buzzard screeched above.  At least he wasn’t hovering around her.  Soon, it would be dark.  I’ll make it, she kept telling herself.

Ahead, she saw bushes and brush, and beyond them, a silhouette of more bushes and brush.  Where is that darn road?  I should be there soon.  Good thing I wore the comfortable shoes.   She looked down at her reliable Chucks.

The view up ahead looked foggy, like confusion.  It looked hazy and a little like the loneliness she felt.  No, that wasn’t it.  It looked like warrior’s freedom.  It was her release from the man who got behind the wheel drunk and risked both their lives regularly.

His command:  “Shut up or get out!”

Her response this time? A slammed car door and hasty footsteps.

©Pamela Schloesser Canepa

The Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers Challenge calls for a short story of no more than 150-175 words in response to a photo prompt.  I encourage you to join the challenge or peruse other flash fiction responses at http://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2016/12/19/fffaw-challenge-week-of-december-20-2016/ .

I find it fun to see how different minds will respond to the same prompt.  Thanks for reading!   I know it’s awfully short, as necessary, but do you get a sense of closure?

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